


Pilot Light

by illicio



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illicio/pseuds/illicio
Summary: The kid moved like a river—a fluid, focused threat of predictable violence.  Had an undercurrent about him, like he'd pull you under if you struggled against him, but wasn't especially deadly if you knew how to navigate him.Summary subject to change as further chapters are posted.  Applicable tags to be added as chapters are posted.
Relationships: Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Comments: 38
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this 19k excursion into idiocy since my burst of feverish writing in October, refusing to edit it because editing is hard when you haven't written anything else in two years. Here's to hoping posting in chunks will make the process go faster.
> 
> The rating is "M" but will change to "E" as I progress through editing.
> 
> In any case, here's an innocuous beginning featuring Lio from Ignis' point of view.

  
  


### I. Perspective: Ignis Ex

  
  


"I have a request."

Ignis looked over the avalanche of work—invoices; inventories; inspection logs; damage reports; standard order requests; emergency requisitions requests—and to the doorway, where his visitor stood. He wore black leather and platinum buckles, patent-polished like a mirror and garnished in white trim and ruffles, looking for all the world like it hadn't experienced a near-miss extinction event less than a week ago.

"Let's hear it," Ignis said, nodding to one of two empty seats across his desk.

The kid moved like a river—a fluid, focused threat of predictable violence. Had an undercurrent about him, like he'd pull you under if you struggled against him, but wasn't especially deadly if you knew how to navigate him.

Lio descended into the chair Ignis hadn't indicated, sprawled like someone who'd never developed bones. Immediate and efficient: "Mad Burnish was responsible for most of your lost and damaged equipment."

"Not just ours," said Ignis.

"First, I won't apologise for what we've done."

That's one hell of a starter. Ignis reached for the bottle he'd set aside—an oasis in the flimsy tundra papering his workspace. It had a lime slice in its neck. "Didn't expect it," he said, popping the lime into its body. Hadn't expected to need this so soon.

Lio watched, tight-lipped and wary. People never knew what to make of a man wearing sunglasses after sunset, let alone one sitting by himself in fluorescent office space, poring over documents. Lio closed his eyes and inhaled, his shape solidifying into one Ignis imagined was meant to show his spine.

When he opened them, they were harder. "Thank you," Lio said. "I won't take advantage of you. I know I can't restore what was lost, but I'll work to make it even."

Ignis raised his beer and took a draught. Nice—smooth and crisp. Never a let-down. Good mouthfeel.

"Second, my request: hire Meis and Gueira. Legitimately." His voice was steady, inevitable like a flame on a long fuse. "Give them the chance to prove what they're worth. Once they've proven it, and they're finished here, vouch for them. You're respected. Your word will matter."

Ignis set the bottle down and regarded Lio—genuinely regarded him. That spine-baring stature he affected, far from the picture of self-satisfied lassitude he was capable of painting through his posture alone; head held high; eyes bright. Waiting. It didn't feel like he was dealing with a feral kid who'd led a pack of wild arsonists. Felt like dealing with a little prince or his most-trusted emissary. "And you?"

Lio's brow pinched. "What about me?"

Ignis was old enough to know that expression: the face of an idiot who thought it his top priority to come asking favours for his friends. One who had, at best, a half-assed plan for himself and, at worst, no plan at all. "Exactly," said Ignis.

Panic flickered through Lio's face, snuffed as quick as it sparked. "Add their compensation to my debt. I'll take care of it."

No plan, then. "You know how much you're talkin'? I'm not gonna do that."

"I see," said Lio, closing his eyes for the moment it took him to stand. His breath shook on exhale. "Thanks for hearing me out."

He turned to leave—no fight, no argument. Calm acceptance. Ignis raised one brow—and to do one better, he raised his voice once Lio reached the door. "I'll do it—if they pass the physical."

Lio stilled, suspended mid-step. He placed his boot back down and turned, wide-eyed, looking at Ignis like he'd just encountered his first real problem. Everything before this point was a warm-up.

"Can't say the same for you right now," said Ignis. "It'd be different if it was my call, but bureaucracy's gonna be a bitch once this's all cleaned up."

"I know," said Lio. "I don't expect anything."

"Expect something."

Lio's mouth parted around a question he didn't ask. 

"I'll compensate you properly," Ignis said. "Don't agree with what you did, but I call that what it was: out of your control. I know what else you did. My only condition for you is you don't ask anybody to short you again."

The kid looked like he'd been sucker-punched. "I..." He hesitated, voice scattered to some far-away place. "All right."

"That's a deal then. I'll draft the contracts when I can."

Like something long-fallen out of practice, the corners of Lio's lips raised, shaping the delicate impression of a smile. "I'll make sure you don't regret it."

And then he was gone.

Ignis reached for his beer.

Well. Nobody regretted Galo.

  
  


▼  
▼  
▼

  
  
  
  


"I can't just leave everybody here." Aina's voice.

Followed by Galo's: "I'm telling you, it's not leaving us if you take a break for once."

"No one else is leaving."

"That's exactly why you should!"

Breakroom dispute. It broke out two minutes ago. Ignis intended to keep out. Decisions regarding the welfare of Aina Ardebit, ultimately, had to be made by Aina Ardebit.

A third voice, like the drone of an idle engine: "You have a sister, don't you?" Lio sat on a steel stool, one knee bent to rest his heel on the bottom rung. His other leg dangled, not quite reaching the ground. He leaned into the counter behind him, his posture a testimony to the fact he wouldn't allow a backless seat to impede his lounging. "Spend time with her before you can't."

Ignis arched a brow. Aina twisted in her seat at the main table, glaring over her shoulder, cheeks puffed and face scrunched in a foreword to fury.

Lio pressed on, indomitable. "The people in this zone are still displaced, but they won't be much longer. You won't have time later."

Aina deflated, mollified by the logic. "I guess," she said. "But if something happens, I want to be here."

"Look around," said Lio, lifting his half-gloved hand, sweeping a gesture around the breakroom. "Everyone here is here because they don't have anywhere else to be." ("Hey!" said Galo, ignored.) "You do. We're here to help now. We won't be forever."

She looked around—to Ignis, thumbing through a report while he eavesdropped; to Galo. Lucia had been here with Remi and Varys earlier, but she'd pulled them away right after dinner. Her eyes landed on the not-quite-royal _We_.

From his spot on the sofa across the room, Meis offered a brief wave. Seated on the opposite side, Gueira said, "Yo!" Looked like they were waiting for something.

Ignis figured they were. Neither of 'em liked to sit still.

Galo said, "You're leaving?"

Lio levelled a flat look in his direction. "We can't exactly live here."

Ignis turned a page. While he'd put them up as long as they needed, Lio wasn't wrong. Nobody chose to live in a station because they enjoyed it more than their homes. Barring extenuating and deteriorating interpersonal circumstances, Galo was the exception. He'd turned live-in. Loved the station and anything tangentially related. Even loved cleaning it. He'd take that duty long before dust had the chance to settle.

Lucia was another consistent resident, but her interest seemed contingent on Galo's presence. No guinea pig, no incentive.

"What's wrong with living here?" Galo jutted his bottom lip, frowning with the entirety of his face.

Undeterred, Lio said, "Nothing's wrong with it."

"Then, why not stay?"

"That's not the point." Lio's attention lolled back to Aina. "Take advantage of us while we're here. Do it as much as you can and without guilt. We'll handle it."

"Right, we don't mind," said Meis.

Gueira said, "Nothin' else t'do anyway."

Aina looked from Meis to Gueira, from Gueira to Lio. Behind her eyes, something had changed. It was akin to viewing dark scenery in daylight, discovering it wasn't so ominous after all. Ignis would know. He'd had that experience already.

"All right," said Aina, at length. "But only tomorrow, and I'll make it up to you later."

"...what?" Lio's fine brows knit substantial confusion. "You really don't have to."

His protest was futile against the outpouring of enthusiasm and goodwill. "I know I don't have to—I want to!"

After lingering too long on the same sentence, Ignis turned another page.

No need to pay attention anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternate title to this story is "I sure did focus a lot of scenes in breakrooms. Maybe I should—EDIT. YOU SHOULD EDIT. WHO CARES!!!!! KEEP EDITING!!!"
> 
> Speaking of, I gave up editing about halfway through, so here's to hoping I didn't leave hilarious errors.
> 
> Not that it wouldn't fit. It's all incredibly stupid from here.

  
  


### II. Perspective: Lio Fotia

  
  


Money wasn't the obstacle. He could earn that.

It was the women. They were distracting, sitting backwards or riding side-saddle, resting their legs on exhaust pipes as if you were supposed to believe they'd be heading anywhere but a hospital to treat burns in the third degree.

One picture had a woman riding through the countryside with her hair pulled back—no helmet, no jacket, no gloves, no boots. 

No. The women weren't the issue. If these photos were real, they'd be on the receiving end of personal injury payouts. Who subscribed to this magazine? They were responsible for keeping it in busine-

Lio bounced, buoyed by the dead weight landing on the couch. He peered over the magazine.

Galo said, "You're really thinking of leaving already?"

He was close. An inch, maybe, from Lio's black-socked feet—part of his FDPP standard issue—which rested on the cushion; his back wedged into the armrest. Galo's proximity seemed unnecessary. The rest of the couch was empty and much more spacious than its cousin situated against the adjacent wall. Perfectly Varys-sized. Bigger, even. Might fit three of him.

Lio tossed the magazine over his shoulder. It hit the side table behind him. _Slap!_ He said, "Don't you have an apartment?"

"Yeah." Galo threw his hands behind his head, leaning back. "But I stay here, too."

He looked serious. Lio hesitated, unsure why that unsettled him. "I didn't say I'd quit."

Galo perked. "Oh?" Like a dog. "So you're staying?" One wagging its tail.

That was better. "For now," said Lio.

But the silence that followed pushed him—gentle, like a breeze at his back, steering him toward the answer to some question he hadn't asked. Felt it as clearly as the gravity of his own emotions. Now, Lio said: "What?"

Galo passed him a sidelong glance—then turned his eyes back to the breakroom. "Nah," he said. "It's nothing. It was a stupid question. We're in the same situation."

Were they? Not exactly. Their experiences had been quite different. "Galo."

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry about Kray."

"Hah?" Galo's hands slid from behind his head, slipping to his sides like he had to brace himself after what he'd heard. He turned his head to Lio, face an open inquiry: _where'd that come from_? "Yeah," he said. "Me, too. Sorry I didn't listen to you."

Lio's brows pinched. He tilted his head, like looking at Galo from another angle might make him make sense. "You did."

"Not right away."

"You didn't side with him."

"I couldn't," said Galo. "Not after-"

His expression did something strange: the intangible equivalent of one holding a square peg over an assortment of holes in which said peg may or may not have fit, deep in thought; carefully picking through their options—and choosing to cram it into their mouth, where this decision would lead to no fewer than three increasingly awkward explanations to different people whose responsibility it was to see the peg removed from an unfortunate and inconvenient place. "Oh," he said. 

Lio scoffed—an almost-smug _hmph_. He unfolded his legs and twisted his body, trading the armrest for the backrest. "As far as idiots go, I suppose you're not so bad."

"Same for you, even if you sound like a cocky little jerk." Which was different, Lio noted, from being one. The distinction pleased him more than a compliment would have. "But seriously," Galo continued, eyes brighter than Lio had seen them since he'd announced his intention to leave. "Thanks. For thinking about—that. About me."

Heat.

Location: chest, dead-centre.

Origin: a brutal, vicious pulse. Throbbed harder than Promare. Organic. Endemic. Hidden, now free. Trapped him. Drowned him in the burnover. 

Lio inhaled. "It's hard not to," he said, quick to recover in spite of the oxygen refusing to enter his lungs.

"Oooh hoh?" Galo had the gall to inch closer, unsubtle in his manner of a man who would have slung an arm around Lio's shoulders if only Lio hadn't leaned out of reach. "That mean you've warmed up to me?"

A rupture in his chest—the blood rising to the surface. He'd bruise. His whole body. That's how it felt. Warmed up to Galo? He must have. He said, "It means you're loud."

It wasn't a lie. Looking at Galo wasn't quiet. Even his silences screamed.

"Vehement vitality!" Lio cringed from the sound, an eye half-winced as he watched Galo punch his right fist into the air. "Torrid tenacity!" Then his left. "Sweltering strength!" Then his left and right, at the same time; voice booming: "Hear and attend and listen! For this-"

Lio slammed into Galo's side, a bulldozer moving a mountain. After impact, he sank back into the couch and split his knees, positioning himself in what he now decided was the optimal spot. It had an invaluable benefit: forcibly ejecting Galo's personal space to expand his own.

"Oi!" Displaced but not daunted, Galo slid back and nudged his knee against Lio's leg. "What's this?"

"A leg," said Lio, grinding his heel into Galo's boot to test if steel toe meant what it advertised. It did. Unfortunately.

"Not that!" Galo nudged him again. "What if somebody wants to sit here?"

Lio kicked his calf. "There's plenty of space."

"Yeah, but if it was crowded-"

"It's not."

"—I know, I know! But if it _was_..."

"You'd be on the floor."

Pause.

The cut of Galo's mouth slashed sideways, his grin white and wild. No longer a dog wagging its tail, but one that located something that might be worth the chase. "Oh yeah? You'd put me there?"

Cool, matter-of-fact: "Easily."

It had no hallmark of dignified battle. 

They reduced themselves to pushes-coming-to-shoves; shoves-coming-to-kicks; kicks-coming-to-pushes; and—in Lio's case—pushes-coming-to-shoves-reprised-except-this-time-with-feet. All's fair in trying to knock each other to the floor and make space for several hypothetical sitters who doubtlessly would have left the room long before breathing the same air as the occupants incurred uncertain irreparable damage.

It ended with a bite: Lio sank his teeth into the side of Galo's palm.

Stillness.

Galo stared at Lio, his mouth gaped, equal in shock and scandal. "Hu—hu—huaah?!"

Lio let go.

Galo didn't move. "You—you—" A beat. "You bit me!"

_Chomp._

Voice rising in fever-pitch: "You're biting me!"

When Lio released him, Galo snatched his hand back and cradled it to his chest.

With great dignity that could only belong to a young man who'd never in his life stoop so low as to bite another young man (twice), Lio wiped the back of his own hand across his mouth. "If you want to keep it, don't put it where it doesn't belong."

Galo's stare was fixed, aghast. A wounded animal, if wounded animals didn't know they were wounded because their skulls were so thick the bullets that struck them assimilated into their bone structures and fused with their DNA, kickstarting some impossible new evolutionary feature that could be deployed at a great disadvantage to would-be hunters. Wounded animals that never bled. Ones that regarded you with a look that said, _what bullets_? 

Galo didn't answer. He rechecked the room—for witnesses?—and threw himself from the couch, scampering out the breakroom with the energy of someone who wasn't above indulging in melodrama during a slow evening.

Lio inhaled a deep breath, held it hostage, and freed it as a sigh. He crawled back over to the armrest, reaching over to retrieve the discarded magazine.

Back to business.

The publishers had decided to put these undoubtedly underpaid women in front of the more appealing parts of the equipment. Worse: none of these bikes could possibly serve as a replacement.

Was this what high-end companies were putting out now? Pathetic.

He'd have a better chance asking Lucia. She might help.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up being unable to edit as much as I wanted tonight but still want to get rid of what I did finish, so here's a short dialogue-heavy chapter that's nothing but banter and bad jokes featuring Gueira and Meis.

  
  


### III. Perspective: Galo Thymos('s poor attention span)

  
  


Noise jangled like someone opened a cupboard and all the pots and pans spilt from inside, rattling down the hall. Galo was drawn toward the sound— _hehahahhahahaha!_ —like a wayward pet promised attention.

It came from deep within the sleeping quarters, down to the furthest dorm.

The station had everything. Why would anyone wanna leave?

He snooped around the half-open door, peering into the room. On the floor: a television. It wore a black screen with two vertical white lines at its left and right sides. There was also a ball bouncing back and forth. 

In front of the set, Meis sat on the ground, his legs folded, hands gripping something. "How're you so good?!"

"I'm not," said Gueira, who sat a short distance to his left. The answer rolled off his shoulders, aided by his helpless shrug. "You fuckin' suck."

"Again."

A game?

Galo watched. Sticks and balls? Sticks and one ball? Seemed uncomfortable. And boring. Nothing was blowing up.

Mid-sneer, Meis turned his head—and then twisted, his attention hooked by something behind him. 

They locked eyes—or, eye. Galo couldn't see the other one.

Meis said, "Galo?"

The ball disappeared into the side of the television, venturing on to screens unseen.

"Heh. Hehahahahaha!"

"Oi!" Meis snapped. "You asshole—that doesn't count!"

Gueira's grin was sharp. He turned his attention on Galo, all magnanimous goodwill and cheer. "Hell're you standin' there for?" He waved him in. Or tried. The gesture was unspecific since he hadn't let go of his controller. Looked like an old radio with a broken lever fastened on it. "Need somethin'?"

"Huh?" Oh. Right. He'd had a purpose when he started walking here.

Galo braved a step inside and puffed up his chest. Mouth set in a fierce line, he looked between Gueira and Meis. 

He presented his hand, and with it, his complaint: "He bit me!"

Silence.

Until Gueira glared at Meis. "What?"

"Well," said Meis slowly. "It wasn't me."

The corner of Gueira's mouth twitched in a sneer. "I didn't do it either."

Meis snorted, glancing at the ceiling.

Galo opened his mouth—and closed it.

"Shut up! I didn't bite nobody."

"Else," said Meis.

Like a cat who'd been stepped on and decided to stick around for revenge, Gueira snarled, "Or else _what_?" His voice was really something. He could curl his mouth around any word and transform it into a pure, condensed disgust.

Meis pressed his index and middle fingers into his temples, rubbing at them. "Nobody _else_ ," he said. "You didn't bite nobody _else_."

"What else was I s'posed to do?" said Gueira, as if the matter was out of his hands.

"Not fucking bite me, that's what!"

Somehow, that seemed significant. Galo couldn't quite place why.

Gueira looked repentant, provided the definition had changed to read _I'd do it again_. "Then, don't cheat."

"How was it cheating?" If he was still Burnish, Meis might have stared a hole through him. "You took the controller!"

"Like I said," said Gueira, waving his hand, as if the gesture brought the other half of a sentence into existence.

" _You_ cheated. You cheated and then you fuckin' bit me!"

"Shouldn't put your hands on stuff that ain't yours."

Meis threw his hands up, fingers curled in the air like he was squeezing two tiny necks. "It's everybody's! We're borrowing it!" 

Gueira sniffed. "It was the boss's turn."

Galo's attention drifted back to earth, pinning to Gueira.

Then, Meis: "He didn't even wanna play."

"Could've convinced him, probably." Gueira.

Ping. "He said he wasn't interested. You heard him. He was reading."

"That's what he was doing?" Pong.

Ping. "Yeah. He's been readin' through all those magazines."

"Seriously?" Pong. Gueira set his controller down, leaning toward Meis. "Those girly magazines?"

Ping. "The ones with the bikes."

"Yeah, the girly magazines." Pong.

"That's incidental. He doesn't care about that."

Galo turned his attention back to Meis, tilting his head so far to the side it would have slid off his shoulders if it wasn't attached to his neck.

"Whatever," said Gueira. "I still didn't bite nobody."

They were quiet—for the moment it took before Gueira happened again. "You think the boss'd ever bite anybody?"

"Nah."

"No?"

"He ain't feral."

"Ain't he? He's brutal. The good kind."

Galo's attention popped back into existence. Brutal? He didn't like that word applied to Lio. Lio was...

"There's that, but a guy like him's gotta have a pedigree."

"Heh."

"Oi," said Meis, raising his voice. "You know that doesn't mean anything. He could've been visiting, got messed up, and _fffwoooooosh_." He wiggled his fingers. "Run for your life."

Run for your life? 

Galo's brows angled, taking a sharp turn down, anchored there by the full force of his frown.

"Didn't mean it like that," said Gueira. "Remembered hearing there was some terrorist guy who said he was from Hell, or whatever. Made it a metal city. Always wanted to see it."

"You don't gotta go midwest for that. Go outside."

"Not the same. Everything here's junked."

"Same as everywhere else these last thirty years."

Galo inched backwards, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't about to hit the wall on the way out.

Run for your life. What did they mean? Could've interrupted them and asked, but...

For some reason, it didn't feel right.

He had to think on it.  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so continues the rapid downward spiral into stupidity.
> 
> My respect to anyone capable of writing 3+ characters interacting in the same scene because boy am I ever not good at it.

  
  


### IV. Perspective: Meis

  
  


Lotta things can happen in a month. Money's one; self-made problems another.

The idea was saving for a place of his— _their_ own. Not that distinctions mattered when his best kept asking for funds. _The hell are you doin' with it?_ He'd asked, but he'd also added, _Gambling?_ and now he had to worry about that because the spark of interest he saw in return didn't need a voice to say: _Now that you mention it..._

Among other things: friends.

"Meis!" Aina chirped, arms folded over the table as she leaned in. "Any luck?"

He never imagined he'd work with Burning Rescue. Wouldn't have come close to guessing the cute firefighter girl _from_ Burning Rescue would care to learn his name, let alone ask after what he did with his personal time. "Ah, yeah, about that..." Gueira aside, there were other problems he didn't care to make pretty for a lunch party. "That's complicated."

Aina blinked. "Complicated?"

No good. Should've said he hadn't found anything yet.

Gueira sat beside Aina, across the table from Meis. Plates and pizza boxes jumped when he dropped his elbow down, propping his chin with his palm. "Just tell her. Ain't nobody gonna rent to Burnish."

They'd integrated to a degree. Out of everyone in Squad 3, Gueira got along best with Aina and Varys, which was why he sat with them. Meis was partial to Remi and Ignis—the latter of whom wasn't present, so he sat between the former and Lio. Everybody liked the boss—they'd damn well better—but he did his best work with Lucia and Galo. Out of those two, only Galo was present.

At his left, Remi glanced at Meis, but settled on Gueira; his drink hovering where it stopped midway on the journey to his mouth. "They know?"

Belligerence took corporeal form, rising in Gueira's stature when he sat tall as he could and spat, "'Course they know. We were Burnish!"

Which was precisely why Meis hadn't wanted to talk about it.

He considered Varys. Easiest opt-out from the conversation would be doing what that guy was doing: putting entire pizzas in his mouth. Trouble was, Varys' mouth was proportionate to his body. Made sense he could do it—then again, Galo did it, too. His mouth looked roughly Gueira-sized (hit the same pitches; screamed the same decibels), so in theory, it shouldn't be impossible.

At his right, a lower voice: "They ask." 

Further right, another: "Hah?" Obscured by bad manners, cheese, tomato, and dough—but not necessarily in that order. "They ask about that?"

Lio said, "Are you really surprised."

Galo wiped sauce from his cheek as if deciding the conversation deserved more commitment. "But there aren't any anymore."

"There were." The boss's hands were bare, gloves long-discarded in pursuit of the messy business of finger food. He ate his slice of pizza up to the crust. Once only that remained, he turned it in his palm, looking at it.

"Why would they care now? Money's money, isn't it?"

Boss snapped the crust in half and tossed one piece to the side, not bothering to watch the flight path.

Galo lunged in his seat, splintering the crust between his teeth like a starving dog. It crunched while he chewed, glaring at Lio, waiting for the explanation to a question whose answer would never be satisfactory.

All background conversation ceased. Meis hadn't realised anyone else had been talking until they stopped. Neither the boss nor Galo noticed—which was impressive in the presence of Gueira's expression. He looked like he'd eaten All The Sour There Ever Was And Ever Will Be and now sat in reflection, wondering why he'd done it.

"Who knows? They care. The _why_ doesn't matter."

"It does, though!"

The second piece of crust flew. As with the first, the boss didn't watch Galo destroy it in a repeat performance. He said, "Whatever their reasons, it'll be especially hard for members of Mad Burnish."

Galo crunched thoughtfully, brows pinched. He swallowed. "Why's that?"

Meis lifted his drink, sucking at the straw to hide his frown. First time he agreed with the idiot over the boss. Why wouldn't their reasons matter?

"It makes sense. They'd run their records," said Remi, breaking the unspoken pact of relative silence. "Your general Burnish likely goes unnoticed, but even a cursory background check would flag these guys."

Galo looked puzzled and unwilling to let that stop him. "Why are they flagged in the first place?"

Meis choked. He slammed his hand and drink on the table as he doubled over, hair hanging over his face as he coughed; his body forced to come to terms with the fact the soda was never coming out of his lungs. It lived there now.

He felt pressure— _pat, pat, pat_ —in two places. He shifted a glance right, looking out his curtain of hair through the blur of his tears. The boss patted his back like soothing an ailing child or infant. That accounted for one hand.

Once he cleared his throat and regained composure, he saw Gueira pull back from where he'd stretched over the table—which explained the unhelpful back-of-the-neck patting.

Meis wiped the tears out of his eyes, aware that Gueira wasn't looking at him anymore. Gueira stared hard at Galo, holding the hand he'd used to pat Meis in the air, a one-handed, aggressive shrug. Gueira turned his stare over to Varys, Remi, Meis, the boss, Aina, and then Galo again. Once he'd come full circle, he snapped, "You for real? Seriously?"

Rising to the challenge despite not knowing what it was, Galo raised his voice. "I'm totally serious!"

"How fuckin' stupid are you? We were terrorists!" Louder.

Louder still: "You weren't!"

Even louder: "'Course we weren't, you idiot!"

If someone didn't stop this, nobody was gonna have eardrums.

"The Foresight Foundation gave us that label. You believed them, once."

The remark wasn't cutting, which was what caught Meis' interest. He turned his attention on Lio and held it there. Lio had never failed to drop Kray by name before. Any time the opportunity to hold the bastard responsible popped up, he took it.

Galo went silent. His mouth twisted with words he didn't say, bottom lip jutted out. Might have looked like a petulant child, if he didn't look so damn guilty.

"Don't," said Lio, somehow kind. "I didn't mean that. I meant our reasons only mattered to us. People feared us because of what we did, and the Foresight Foundation took advantage of that. Some of them won't change their minds, but now that we're—we can live without hiding, we need to establish trust with other people like you. Lying wouldn't help us do that."

Oh. Meis felt his throat tighten. So, that was why it didn't matter. 

He felt heat creep into his spine. Not the Promare, but it felt close. Judging by what he saw of Gueira's face from his peripheral, he must have felt something similar. Meis said, "Didn't spend all that time living out there just to pretend it didn't happen."

"Wouldn't wanna lie about it anyway," said Gueira.

Galo didn't look at anyone but Lio. "But that's-"

"-not fair?" The boss sounded different—the difference between motors and kittens. Softer. "Nothing is."

"But I-"

"It's fine, Galo."

"It's not."

"I _said_ -"

"Anyway," said Meis, cutting them off. "Pretty heavy for a lunch discussion. Whatever all this shit is, we've gotta deal with it. We'll work it out."

"Yeah," Gueira agreed. "We're used to this kinda thing."

Before anyone else could object, Meis added: "Even being here's more 'n I thought we'd get. Hey, Aina—how's your sister?"

That ought to shut everyone up.

  
  
  


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Meis listened in the way of one used to sifting through noise—catching words in streams of sentences, digging out useful bits, arranging them. Something-something, clean-up; general social order still a mess; something-something; chaotic; no news on what's gonna happen next; something-or-other; all resources have been allocated with singleminded focus on salvage and repair, in that order. But she was working hard. She had been-

He noticed Lio's expression—hard, in harmony with his rigid posture.

On second thought, Heris wasn't the best topic either.

He watched Galo dip his head, sinking eye-level with Lio like he had a secret he couldn't risk anybody else hearing.

"Oi, boss!" Gueira cut Aina off, barking the alarm, pointing at Galo.

Lio looked at Gueira instead of the person indicated at the end of his finger. Which was a mistake, because he didn't see it coming.

Time went freeze-frame, like all conversations held between them had been nothing more than a pipe dream hashed between the shunned in some desert shanty, discovered by the Freeze Force. No one moved.

Except for Lio, whose lips twitched, quivering under the tension of his strained expression. His stare snapped like elastic, landing on his shoulder. On what was there.

Galo leaned away, proud as a dog that shit itself on purpose. "How was that? My super sne—aaaah?!"

Violence broke like a bar fight.

Aina's voice—"You guys!"—was the last shred of reason, lost to the gnashing of teeth.

  
  
  


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So, recap.

The idiot bit the boss's shoulder, so the boss bit the idiot in the arm and smashed his open palm into his face. (Aina: "Stop it!") The idiot bit the boss's palm and wiggled from side to side, trying to dislodge the boss from his arm. ("Really?!") Once removed, the boss snaked around to bite the idiot in the back; even took advantage of his yelp to punch him in the mouth. ("Lio!") The idiot dodged and eclipsed the boss, bending over him to bite his shoulder again. (" _Galo!_ I can't believe you two!") Boss ducked, biting somewhere unseen.

Galo squealed.

Aina braved the fray, hooking her arms beneath her target's shoulders, hauling him back.

Lio lunged after them, springing like a snake—caught by the tail. He whirled his head, glaring at Meis, who held one of his arms at the elbow.

Gueira jumped the table, cutting the problem of circling it. He joined in the effort of adding more strength to the boss's tether.

Lio spat. " _Kch_."

"Hmmm," a new voice. Lucia had materialised along with Vinny at some point during the last few minutes. She perched atop a counter, watching from her vantage point. "Looks like I shouldn't be testing with Galo after all."

"Oi, I'm already hurting over here!"

In the end, three chairs had toppled, but no other casualties. Lio tested Meis and Gueira's collective grip on his arms as if seeking the optimal force at which he could pull without breaking free.

"Jeez," said Aina, who had yet to release Galo. "What was that about?"

"Exactly what it looked like!"

"Don't sulk."

"He did it first—and anyway, everybody's been doing it!"

Meis turned a look to Gueira. Slowly. Over the top of Lio's head, Gueira's eyes were already on him, flickering with something predatory—like a shark who had a debt to collect.

Shit.

"Nobody's been doing that," said Aina.

Silence.

"I'm not," she added, after a moment. Then, frowning, glanced around the room like someone desperate for affirmation. Helplessly, "... _is_ everybody else doing it?"

Remi said, "Negative."

"Not my thing," said Varys.

"Vinny," said Vinny.

Lucia said, "Ehhh? Really?"

"Vinny!"

"Not even once?"

"Vin-ny."

Lucia scrunched her face, her voice rumbling with a vague dissatisfaction. "Two or three."

"Vinny," said Vinny, vindicated.

Gueira said, "What?"

Solemn and significant, from the doorway where he'd also appeared in the last few minutes, Ignis said, "Once."

Aina and Galo, a united front: "No way!"

"I was a different person back then."

"Rrrgh." Galo seized his own hair, ruffling it. "Look, we're getting away from the point."

"Point being?" Gueira tipped his chin up, sneering. "You tryin' to say something about the boss?"

"Right, right," said Meis. "You gotta spell it out for us. We don't get the implication."

Aina watched Lio from over Galo's shoulder. Galo also looked at Lio, who glared back at him. "What? I'd only bite someone who deserved it," he said, shaking his arms. 

Meis and Gueira let him go. The threat had passed.

Aina sighed. She unhooked her arms, freeing Galo.

Galo made himself busy. He righted Aina's chair—one of the few that had managed to fall during the partially-contained bite fight—and moved on to Lio's, thunking it harder than he needed to when he set it down. He saved his own seat for last, dropping back into it once finished. Whatever mood he was in, it didn't diminish his appetite.

Ignis glanced over the room. Varys and Remi raised their fists, thumbs up.

In return, Ignis nodded. Content the situation was under control, he backed out.

Everyone returned to their places. Even Lio, who slipped into his seat beside Galo. He reached to the centre of the table—to the desolate box containing three slices. He confiscated all of them, saving the thinnest one for himself before unceremoniously depositing the rest on Galo's plate.

Galo blinked, the traces of an ill mood passing like a storm that never leaked a drop. He picked up one of the offered pieces, broke it down the middle, and dropped the larger half on Lio's plate.

It was the first piece, Meis noted, that Lio picked up when he went back to eating.

Apropos of nothing, Remi said, "What is it?"

Lucia said, "Nothing. I saw something interesting."

Meis was quiet.

She wasn't the only one.

  
  
  


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"You gotta watch it."

"Eh?"

"Boss's pickin' up bad habits from you. Be a good big brother, role model, or something."

"Why'm I the big brother? What's that make you?"

"The smarter big brother."

"Whatever. How old d'you think he is anyway?"

"Dunno. Never asked, never mattered."

"Definitely holds his own."

"Either way, knock it off."

"You're just pissed 'cause you had to get treated."

"No shit, I am! I didn't even know this kinda wound got infected."

"Don't deserve it next time."

"I didn't!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue what happened to the ice lake, but for my purposes this is now an AU where the ice lake was removed by magical science explosions. 
> 
> I also realised I have no idea how to tag this, so tags will probably only get added once I reach the E chapters.

  
  


### V. Perspective: Galo Thymos

  
  


A crater.

Fallen trees lined the perimeter, burnt and splintered, suggestive of an explosion. Further, into the hole in the landscape, rock and rubble lay where the makings of a laboratory once stood. Ruins now, covered in ash and sheets of metal; shards of glass and wires that were once live, but now inert.

Neither ice nor lake. Nothing exciting to look at anymore.

Galo breached the line of the brush and broken wood, surveying the emptiness. The sun was high, but the air was cold.

It felt fitting.

He zipped up his jacket and took a step forward, sliding down the steep slope, into the pit.

A light flickered in the distance, flinty with malice. He approached with caution, giving it a wide berth—like a scavenger, wondering if its meal was dead or asleep. Once he wound his way beside it, he crouched in the debris, digging away dirt and dust to uncover the rest of the object. His fingers curled around its girth and stood, like pulling a sword from a stone.

Just a pipe. He tossed it to test the weight in his hand. Not bad. Must've been a high-tech material. He twirled it like a—"Ghk!"

Dropped it. Galo swatted at it—and subsequently sent it rocketing skyward from the force of the hit. He watched it rise, whirling like a helicopter blade gone sideways, or a circular saw, cutting its way on a collision course with his face.

_Smack!_ Gloves didn't blunt the impact. Galo hissed, shifting the pipe to his other hand, shaking the battered one like that might throw off the sting.

Then, another sound. _Snap._

Crisp, deliberate—sharp. Like the bones he'd broken a few years after the fire, back when he was old enough to visit Kray at his office—to cloy after him and ask to see him. Kray had been amidst his rapid ascent to power but wasn't quite a household name. He'd been in the process of moving between buildings, acquiring an office with a higher view.

The accident happened when Galo left. Someone had bumped into him, uttering a hasty apology he remembered because it was the last thing he'd heard before he'd gone out the window. The thick glass pane had come free and opened like a trap, depositing him outside.

It happened too quick for him to scream. In no time, he smashed into the safety net of an open basket hanging from a crane, breaking himself against the metal platform rather than the lone worker inside it. Luck reduced a twenty-storey fall to three, trading death in favour of a few scrapes, a lot of bruises, and a broken arm and leg.

Kray had visited him. Brought him gifts. Treats. Condolences. Empathy. Kindness. He changed the bandaids covering Galo's minor scrapes and tended to his wounds between his treatment from nurses. He paid the hospital bills. Spoke to him in his soft, kind voice. He even signed Galo's casts.

Hard not to look back and wonder. How was it that someone happened to push him into the one window where the glass had come loose? He didn't make a habit of suspicion, but...

His hand tightened around the pipe.

_SNAP._ Louder, like a warning. Followed by: _crunch, crunch, crunch, crunchcrunch._

Galo furrowed his brows, turning around. No one. Nothing but the—pipe ripped from his hand, torn away like the thoughts he'd been having. "Huh?!" He turned again, scanning the terrain, completing a near-circle before he found the culprit.

Not far off, a lithe shape stalked onward into the crater, no longer crunching. It moved like some kind of fey all those fairytales talk about: a creature borne of fire and ruins, at home in such dismal, desolate places. Dangerous. The pipe weaved, passing through its black-gloved fingers like a wave.

Galo lifted his voice and called. "Oi! Did you follow me just to show off?"

Lio stopped. He passed a cool glance to Galo, his face nothing but the serenity embedded in every inch of his posture. Elegant. Still twirling the pipe like a baton, like it was no effort—because, for him, it probably wasn't. "I was already here," he said. "I saw you and decided someone had to protect you from yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Galo's voice sank into a sulk. "I wasn't—hah!" Caught it. He hoisted the pipe in triumph.

Like backhanded praise: "You didn't even flail this time."

"Yeah," said Galo, the grin absent from his mouth instilled in his voice. "I can't afford to mess around when it comes to you. I could get hurt."

_Hmph._ But he swore he saw something like a smile before Lio turned away, looking toward what used to be the entrance to the laboratory. With his back to Galo, Lio asked, "Why are you here, anyway?"

As if Galo was the one intruding on him. Galo's mouth angled downward, matched with his deeply furrowed brows. "What do you mean, why am I here? Why are _you_ here?" He mashed a hand into the side of his head, ruffling his hair as he closed the distance between them.

"I asked first," said Lio.

"Fine, fine! It's not a secret." He put his hands behind his head, gripping the pipe at either end, rolling it against the back of his neck. "I used to come here a lot. Not much to look at since the old man self-destructed."

Tranquil, like the occasional breeze that haunted the wreckage: "And me."

Beside him, Galo glanced down. The sun shivered through Lio's hair, bright enough to blind, but pretty. He didn't want to look away. "You?"

Lio didn't meet his eyes. His gaze was distant, fixed. "I did some of this."

"Is that why you're here?" He snuck a few looks, trying to find what Lio saw. "You're just really sentimental about scenery?"

Ah—a laugh? Did he hear that right? It was just for a second.

"That's not it," Lio said. "I wanted to see how it looked now."

"I didn't figure you'd dwell on stuff like this," said Galo, who quit searching. It had become apparent that Lio watched something only Lio could see.

He noticed muscles tensing beneath the leather—because Lio was someone on whom it was wise to keep not one eye, but two. More if you had them. The more eyes on him, the better—not because he'd been an enemy, but because he was someone on which Galo could count. Someone who could be a foil, an ally, a worthy adversary should he ever come into need of one. A friend.

Galo found he understood: the malevolent leader of Mad Burnish, precarious and unpredictable; safe as falling asleep with a lit candle on your pillow; ready and willing to immolate any obstacle in his path. No one would have believed the escape routes he'd left in walls of flame were intentional. No one outside of Mad Burnish knew anything about Lio Fotia. It must have felt strange hearing someone else talk to him with any level of familiarity.

Quietly, Lio said, "I thought..." No words followed.

Galo lowered his hands—and in turn, the pipe. He shifted and reached out, pushing the blunt end against Lio's palm, not unlike a dog might rub its snout into an owner's open hand.

Lio puffed a short, hard breath. His attention returned from the unknown, falling to the pipe—to where it nudged him. He curled his slim fingers around the offered end and _pulled_.

Out of instinct, Galo tugged back. Tug-o-war without any room for slack.

But it served its purpose. 

"I thought I wanted to see this again," Lio continued, yanking harder.

Force-met-with-force, equal in strength. "This?"

"Where it started. The beginning of a life without Burnish." 

Lio let go.

Galo stumbled, but he was ready. He slammed one boot behind him, rooting himself in place; catching the momentum rather than letting it topple him into dirt and detritus; shards and scraps. He said nothing. It felt like a moment he shouldn't push.

"I only hear myself now," said Lio, like a confession. "It's hard to think."

Galo reclaimed his spot—the place where he'd been standing by Lio before he lost ground. "You really heard them talking all the time?"

"It wasn't talking. Not really." Lio's eyes were set on that fixed point again, that place Galo couldn't see. "It was..." His expression reflective, like glass in skyscrapers as seen from outsiders. No matter where Galo looked, all he saw was a reflection of himself. These were windows he wanted to smash through. Break open. Let the Lio inside out. "...instinct. Impulse. Intuition. Purpose. Desire. It's quiet now."

"All of you heard that? Like some kinda hivemind?"

Not the most eloquent comparison, but Lio didn't seem to mind. "I used to think so, but... I think what we heard was different. All Burnish felt the desire to burn, but some felt it stronger than others." Like Kray, who intended to incinerate the world. "Meis and Gueira don't have trouble. I don't know about the others."

_But you do,_ Galo thought. "Lio," he said, firm but gentle. "You aren't alone."

Lio didn't look to him, but his mouth curved again—a genuine, visible smile. "I know."

He was...

Galo said, "Hey, I wanna say something before I miss the chance."

"So say it."

"So, what I wanna say is: I'm sincerely, truly impressed by you. You're amazing."

Out the corner of his eye, movement blurred. Lio whirled to stare at him as if alarmed. Galo found he liked that—liked how Lio had to look up to clear the obstacle of height before they could meet eyes. Lio's were huge—pink like sunset sky and the subtle reflection of oranges and purples.

Galo grinned—the best olive branch he had. "Didn't expect to hear that from me?"

"No, I've been thinking." Lio paused, picking his words. "It couldn't have been anyone but you."

The grin evaporated, burned away by the fire that sparked in his face. "Wh-" Galo's own eyes became large—it must have been the same face Lio had worn, except more severe. "What?"

Calmer than should have been legal, Lio said, "I mean if it wasn't you, it wouldn't have worked."

That.

That.

That.

That.

That was-

"Didn't expect to hear that from me?" Lio's mouth discovered a sly, smug smirk and seemed to find it enjoyed the shape.

_Who could help feeling that way about me when basking in the proximity of such brilliantly burning spirit?_ And other things he would have liked to say, but they all gummed in his mouth, leaving him with only: "W-w-w-w-well, well—what's so funny?!"

Twice now he'd had to endure the laughter. It was a soft, breathless thing with a short life, but he couldn't help sulking. Just a little. He was off his game for no reason! Why was it so warm? He was the one who wanted to say something like that to Lio, so why was it—why was it that some cute, kittenish, playful look made him feel like he was the one burning up? Even worse—when had those words started applying to Lio?!

Lio said, "It's getting warm."

"Y-yeah." Galo agreed.

The silence that followed was awkward but certain—different from uncertain silences, where he couldn't be sure of what the other person thought of his presence. This was certain: Lio wanted to be here. Galo wanted to be here. Neither minded being in each other's company to do it.

After some time, he noticed colour. Lio's complexion was pale, but his cheeks looked closer to the colour of his eyes. "Oi, your face," said Galo. "Are you cold? It's kinda windy."

Lio jerked his head away, blurting, "So why are we standing here?"

The lack of composure made Galo feel better. Like he wasn't the only one who was—like this wasn't—like this was—like this—like whatever they were doing. Felt his heart in his chest, in his throat, in his veins—pounding, pounding, pounding. Hammering a message, but he couldn't parse the code. "Well," he said. "You stopped."

Indignance: "You followed me."

"Didn't you want me to?" Galo stepped back, making room to point the pipe at Lio, accusatory.

Sound rumbled like ground-up words in the back of Lio's throat. He lashed out, latching onto the end of the pipe. He turned from Galo, pulling as he walked.

Galo chose to move with him rather than stand his ground. "What are you doing?"

"Walking."

"There's nothing out here."

"I know that."

"Then-"

"Just walk."

_Run for your life_ , Meis had said.

If Lio had spent all his time running away in some desperate attempt to preserve his life, then wasn't this fine? Being able to wander must have had its appeal.

Neither of them released the pipe.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've gone over this scene 459384 times and almost scrap it every time since I can't make it work for the inner critic. Unfortunately, the inner critic doesn't know I'm capable of ignoring it because I need this scene. For reasons.

  
  


### VI. Perspective: Lio Fotia

  
  


Sterile. Claustrophobic.

The overhead lights beaned down like search helicopters. No shadows in which to hide.

Triggered _fight or flight_ , with significant emphasis on _fight_. If he'd been alone, he'd have bolted into whatever room waited for him at the end of the tight, white-tiled corridor.

It reminded him of stainless steel tables. Medical professionals cut from non-standard cloth—a particular strain who didn't bother pretending to work for public benefit. Ones who didn't need reasons to inject you with compounds and solutions, to test your endurance, to see if their concoctions could make you last longer even while they used you up till there was nothing left. Ones who would poke, probe, and prod you regardless of whether you were a child.

But this wasn't a blacksite in some classified location. It was the Promepolis Fire Department: Division 3.

Galo was ahead of him. "This way!"

Idiot. Like there was anywhere else to go.

The hall opened into a small entry room, similarly tiled to the gym showers. No surprise, considering that was where they'd come from. Lockers hovered on the first wall to his right—hexagon-shaped. He counted seven, all arranged in a way one might have considered artful if they had no idea what art was. It reminded Lio of a honeycomb—some would-be interior decorator trying to turn utilitarian walls and a generic colour scheme into something more organic.

It wasn't working. 

It was the opposite of working. To the point of distraction.

"Here, take off your shirt!"

Lio tilted a look at Galo. Flatly, "Why?"

"It'll feel better!" Galo seized Lio's shoulders, pinching the loose-fitted black shirt. "Come on." He tugged.

Silence.

"C'mooon. Up, up!" Tug, _tug_.

Lio puffed his cheeks, made a sound like _mnh,_ and surrendered. He raised his arms, his expression the angled arrowhead of angry cats. The shirt slid off, leaving him in a similar state of undress: red shorts, courtesy of the clean clothes left for them in the decontamination room.

"If you're not working out, it doesn't make sense to wear a shirt," Galo explained, stashing Lio's top in one of the honeycombs. He left the key—it made sense. No real risk of anyone stealing anything here. Galo paused, then added, as if he'd come into great wisdom: "Actually, it doesn't make sense to wear a shirt when you're working out either."

Lio glared at him—mostly because it did when it came to shared equipment. Laying in someone else's sweat wasn't his idea of a good workout. It was disgusting. "You never think it makes sense to wear a shirt."

"You're exaggerating," said Galo, closing his eyes—the peak of pure piety. He held his right hand against his bare chest, over his heart. A pledge. When his eyes opened again, they were filled with honest determination. "I wear them at least half of the time!"

He didn't. Counterpoint: "A third of the time."

"It's more than that!"

"It's definitely not."

Galo looked uncertain. He frowned at Lio, leaning in—trying to scrutinise his candour. "...you really notice that?"

Firm, like a nip: "I don't exaggerate. Show me what you wanted to show me already."

"Yeah, yeah."

The room beyond the entry housed three free-standing structures, each one large enough to suit three people or one Varys and half an Ignis. They were set at different points as if they'd been moved around so much that whoever was trying to position them gave up trying.

Lio couldn't decide if it was better or worse than the metal honeycomb.

Galo said, "Which one d'you want?"

He considered his options. They looked like long, deep armoires—if armoires had windows and contained nothing but a bench and black panels. One per person, then? How strangely considerate of Lio's personal space. "Which one do you use?"

"This one." Galo stepped toward the enclosure situated on the furthest wall, in the middle of the room—the first one visible upon entering. He patted the side twice, like assuring it of something. "When I'm here. Haven't been here much. Twice, maybe? Want it?"

"It's as good as any," said Lio, following him. He peered through the windows once he was close. It felt familiar, yet strange.

Galo fussed with a control pad. Once satisfied, he opened the doors—double, in the french style—and gestured. An invitation. "Here."

He ushered Lio inside—and stepped inside himself, shutting the room out behind them.

Oh. 

Together then.

Inside, it felt like hiding in a walk-in closet, minus the distinct lack of clothing racks and shelving space. In the absence of apparent objectives, Lio allowed himself to slump onto the wooden bench and stretch his legs. It had no back, but the wall was right behind it, which was just as well. Galo seated himself a modest distance away.

Above the doors, the clock flashed: 00:00—and then 15:00.

Which was when everything went green.

Lio lifted his chin, scanning the thin bands of green light streaking over the top of the enclosure. That, combined with the black panels, made it look...kind of cool, actually.

He was aware of warmth in his muscles. An odd, internal heat that didn't begin at his core, but seemed to thaw him from inside out. Then, it clicked. "A sauna?"

"Something like that. It's got some kinda—whatever." Galo made a vague gesture with his left hand. "You'd have to ask Lucia or Ignis. Probably Ignis. Lucia made 'em, but she doesn't care for 'em."

"Ignis?" Lio's lashes lowered. He turned a look on Galo, pinning a half-lidded stare.

Galo's eyes were shut. "Yeah," he said. He'd folded his hands behind his head, leaning back much like Lio himself was. It didn't look comfortable. "Him and Varys use them the most. Those guys like retro things."

"Galo." Warmer. Lio felt his skin prick with sweat. "Why are we here? We already did decon."

"'Cause it feels good. Do we need another reason?"

"So good you've only come here twice?"

Galo opened one eye. "You really do notice everything."

Not everything. The mood here felt strange, but Lio couldn't figure out why. "I pay attention," he said.

"That's why I thought it'd be nice."

"What?" Lio's brows creased—part of the deep frown he felt in his face.

A loud, exaggerated sigh flooded the air. Galo sat up straight. "Look," he said, turning to face Lio head-on. "I swear, I'm not trying to hide anything. I really thought it might be nice!"

He didn't get it. Lio eyed Galo, wary. "Why?"

"Well, I'm not sure about the benefits." Galo shifted his eyes away from Lio, like catching a case of spontaneous self-consciousness. "Sounded like gibberish to me, but it feels good in the muscles, right? You're always so tense. You relax less than I do."

Suffocation. Not the room. Not the heat from the panels. That was different. This was fire. Burning. On his face; in his head. Smoked his thoughts. Gonna fry if it kept up. Made it hard to think. It was already hard to think. Why did this guy have to be so—so—

Lio slid down the bench, shoving off the floor. Its surface was smooth enough he could glide down to sit beside Galo with little force. He hooked his index finger beneath the black strap across Galo's chest, pulling it as far back as he could before releasing it.

It struck his skin with a _smack!_

"Ow!"

Lio scoffed. "That didn't hurt you."

"I was surprised!"

"Take it off."

"Uh?" Galo blinked at him, gaping his mouth.

Further instructions needed, clearly. "The sleeve. I want to see."

Galo's look searched him. He found what he wanted or didn't. The important thing was he listened: he slipped from his harness and peeled the sleeve from his arm like a snake shedding its skin. When finished, he presented them to Lio; his face filled with nothing but earnest guilelessness. As ridiculous as he'd been from the moment Lio first set eyes on him.

The gesture was so simple—so impossibly, straightforwardly stupid—it made the corner of his mouth twitch.

He found satisfaction in ignoring the offerings—in reaching out to touch Galo's arm. The sharp intake of breath as he smoothed his fingertips down the bicep, feeling chunk upon chunk of raw scar. How it twisted the texture of his skin. Quiet, Lio said, "These were Burnish flames."

A heartbeat. Another beat. Then, Galo's voice: "How can you tell?"

"It's...difficult to explain." Lio couldn't say why. "I think only those who were Burnish could tell." He lifted his eyes and met Galo's. They looked teal in the green light. He wondered how his own must have looked. Black? Gray? Some other dismal colour? "How long have you had these?"

Galo's throat bobbed, like swallowing something. "A few months?"

He didn't remember. Of course he didn't. "Do they hurt?"

"Not even a little," he said, puffing his chest like he was proud of it.

Lio folded his right leg beneath himself on the bench, turning his body to fully-face Galo's side. He moved his palm again, touching a particularly gnarled patch of scar. He pressed his fingertips in, along with his nails. They weren't long, but they were enough.

"Oi, that wasn't an invitation to try!"

A quick glance up revealed that while Galo was complaining, his face was mostly various tints of stupid and confused. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Lio couldn't capture Galo's bicep between both his hands, but he made a valiant effort: he held the arm firmly, pressing his thumbs into the scar tissue, rubbing in hard, slow circles.

Galo stared at him, stock still. Lio tried not to notice, which was harder than it should have been, if only because Galo's mouth looked like it was trying to squirm off his face. Even so, neither of them said anything.

  
  
  


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It took some time to knead them all.

They'd run the timer out. Green heat faded to soft white light and room temperature; all colours restored to their proper states.

After some time, Lio said, "Keep doing that." He released Galo's arm. "A few times a day."

No reply.

"Galo."

Galo startled, his entire body jolting out of dormancy. "Ah?! Right! Got it." Did he? Lio had been about to ask him to repeat the instruction when more words barrelled out of Galo's mouth. "Thanks for taking care of me!"

What? 

No.

_Was_ he?

Hot. Again. Worse than when he'd been actively sweating.

Lio fled the bench—calmly, coolly, like someone who wasn't fleeing the bench. "I'm going to shower," he announced. "You should, too." Why had he said that? That wasn't relevant.

Galo stared, wide-eyed, holding his harness and sleeve in one hand. He looked stuck. Unable to process the situation.

Lio opened the doors, hesitating at the threshold. He didn't look back to Galo, whose eyes he felt against his naked back. 

With some effort, he managed: "...you were right. It felt nice. Thanks," and hurried out, leaving the room and his honeycomb-hidden shirt behind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been engaged in an endless battle with rewriting this scene repeatedly. I'm still not 100% satisfied, but to this chapter I say GET OUT OF HERE, I'M DONE WITH YOU!!! I WANT TO MOVE ON TO THE NEXT PART!!!

  
  


### VII. Perspective: Lio Fotia

  
  


The light was on: a warm yellow beam stretched into the hallway, drawing him like a moth ready to sacrifice itself to the flame.

Galo hadn't missed dinner, but he hadn't stayed. Aina had changed the subject—a credit to her perception. She'd said, _Actually, let's watch something else!_ and reached to confiscate the controls from Vinny. Galo had waved her off. _Don't worry, don't worry! I just don't wanna sit still!_

Lio suspected his departure had less to do with a general aversion to news coverage-

> _—local man clings for life after being savagely harassed by a murder of crows. These avians have taken up station beneath his ladder, croaking orders and hopping menacingly—_

-and more to do with where it was going.

> _—talking trash. That's right! Once we're through, you'll understand precisely what trash is. Trash is non-recyclable, worthless stuff. That's why we burn—_

It all led to the same destination.

> _—unprecedented hearing is underway. The council intends to gather further evidence pertaining to nineteen allegations made in light of the governor's—_

Even he had trouble listening.

> _—are asking the question: will he be allowed to retain any of his holdings in the Foresight Foundation? Tonight, our experts—_

Utter trash. The worst kind. You couldn't burn it.

Lio placed his palm against the door—and paused, the rest of his body cloaked in shadow.

He inhaled a deep breath and pulled it open.

Galo's room.

The walls weren't cluttered. They wore the occasional poster. One caught Lio's attention: it depicted a broad figure standing atop a building built in the ancient Japanese style. It held a matoi, pictured in mid-motion, strips of white flag lashing the air—proud and defiant in spite of encroaching flames.

A matoi stood in one corner of his room like some fire-warding scarecrow, reverently placed.

By the desk, about eye-level from a seated position, pictures clustered around the wall. Galo with Varys; with Remi; with Lucia and Aina; with Lucia; with Aina; and one with Ignis. Some appeared to be photos taken at public functions—all before the Burnish threat vanished. Promepolis looked intact.

Not that Lio had a good view of all the pictures from the doorway, but he had a sniper's eye for targets. In particular: the large one lying on his back in bed—the standard metal frame; red blankets and yellow sheets—with his hands folded behind his head, as if a pillow wasn't enough cushion for him, staring at the ceiling.

Lio tapped a knuckle against the doorframe— _knock_ , _knock_ in leisurely succession.

Galo's body jolted, snapping upright, turning to the sound. Pensiveness faded, animated by surprise. "Lio?" Heartfelt and honest: "What's wrong?" He stood, the tension in his stance suggesting he might cross the room to check on his visitor.

Nothing and everything special about that reaction. Galo would've done the same from Aina to Gueira, Meis to Kray, to anyone he'd known longer than an hour. Lio felt a double-rap in his chest—the heart's rendition of stutter-and-stumble. Fondness warmed his veins when it picked itself up and hurried, pace quicker. "Sit down," he said.

Galo dropped to the edge of the bed, slapping his hands on his knees—then frowning and furrowing his brows, as if unsure why he listened.

Satisfied, Lio asked: "Did you remember?"

"Remember...?" Galo made a loose fist with his left hand. Out went the index finger, followed by the middle, followed by the ring; one eye half-scrunched in thought. Counting.

Lio watched his thought process crumple into a wall. 

Well.

First responders shouldn't wait for an invitation.

He pulled the door shut behind him. _Click_ , said the latch, releasing a pulse of electricity through his nerves. He took one step after another, bringing himself closer and closer to his target.

He stopped in front of Galo, lashes half-lidded and mouth tight, considering his expression—that candid confusion. Was this what Galo felt when he looked down at Lio when Lio stood beside him? Did he like it? Being above him.

_Focus_. Lio scrunched his face with distaste and shook the thought off. It seemed distant—not only second-hand but third or fourth-hand. Like it belonged to someone else far-removed.

Galo tipped his head, frowning. "Lio?"

Another deep inhale.

He slipped out of his boots and climbed into the bed.

"Whuh—?" Galo choked on his words when Lio's fingers clutched the collar of his shirt. Not discomfort—he didn't flinch or recoil. Aside from abandoned words, he let whatever he thought was happening, happen.

Lio pulled the shirt over Galo's head, took the harness like removing a dog's collar, and peeled the sleeve, tossing each item over the metal-slatted headboard, where they caught and dangled.

Galo stared, wide blue eyes surrounded by white.

Lio puffed his cheeks, brows creased in concentration.

All right. 

Focus.

Encore: sauna, without windowed doors. Heat without infrared, but no shortage of warmth emanating from within. Must be running hot. Galo's skin felt lukewarm when he took his arm, narrowing his focus to the topmost scar. Thumbs rubbed firm, unrelenting circles into the tissue, then smoothed it as if trying to spread it apart. The tips went white from the pressure.

Halfway down the arm: "Oh yeah," said Galo, breathless. Like he'd winded himself in the process of coughing his words out. "I forgot."

Neither inordinate nor indolent, Lio's attention remained diligent, never lingering beyond what was necessary. "I'll remind you," he said, because it wasn't optional.

He pretended not to notice when Galo looked away.

Time swelled onward, poured over them, and found other places to be—like the point at which Lio's fingers had advanced down Galo's arm, right beneath his elbow. To when Galo mumbled, "It'd be kinda weird to do this on my own, y'know."

Childlike petulance. Lio lifted his gaze, observing Galo's glower. "Not really. You know where they are and what this feels like."

"Well, yeah, but..." Galo's jaw shifted, his adam's apple bobbing like a lure.

Lio refocused on the task in hand. "Ask someone to do it for you if it gives you trouble."

"Like you?"

Posture: glacial. Held fast till Lio's blood warmed enough to move again. He looked to the hard edge of Galo's eyes. Galo watched him in turn, expression firm. Harsh, if not for the colour in his cheeks.

"If you want something, say it," said Lio, who felt no mercy. 

Massage: resumed. Press, roll, spread. Watched his thumbs as they moved; felt Galo's stare bore into the top of his head.

"Actually," Galo said. "I wanna ask something."

"So ask."

"Why...are you doing this, exactly?"

Press-roll-spread. "Because you won't."

Pink cheeks turned red. "No, I mean..." Galo raised his right arm, palm flat. He moved it in a circle, like washing a window.

Press-roll—pause. Light flashed behind Lio's eyes; felt them widen when he raised his brows, raised his head, and stared. White-hot bubbling beneath his skin. The burn wasn't unpleasant. Heart throbbed like a wound. Fear—but not. Similar. "Seriously?"

Resume: spread. Press-roll-spread.

Galo's voice raised in a high-pitched whine. "Tell me!"

"I can't believe you let somebody do this without knowing why."

"You're not just somebody," Galo barked. "You told me to ask, so answer!"

Lio's lips parted around the breath punched from his lungs. The admission plunged through his chest, entangled his heart. Squeezed. Head felt light, like Galo's idiocy was a contagion that converted all valuable grey matter into helium, threatening to lift him into the clouds—off to whatever fantasyland this complete, total moron occupied.

"This should keep the scar tissue from binding," said Lio. "If it binds, it'll hurt you to swing your matoi around like an idiot." 

Silence filled with an ache he didn't dislike.

Press-roll-spread. Press-roll-spread. Press-roll-spread, repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Galo's face happened. A vision reflected off an unconventional mirror: the endless look of a man startled into backstepping off a cliff, plunging to whatever depth or death awaited him, only to find he wasn't falling—or if this _was_ falling, perhaps it wasn't so bad.

"Then, um..." Hesitation. Nervousness? "How long should y—should I do it?"

Lio could count the times Galo had hit his head using both hands and all fingers—at which point he ran out. If he borrowed a few more hands—maybe Gueira's and Aina's, plus one of Vinny's paws—he might have enough to tally the total he'd witnessed in the three months he'd been contracted with the FDPP.

In all that time, he'd never heard Galo sound so dazed. Lio said, "You wear the sleeve to protect your arm, don't you?"

"Oooh?" Galo's voice emerged from the fog. "Maybe. Or maybe not! Maybe I don't wanna scare little kids."

Lio's mouth tugged at a smile he didn't resist. "That's not it."

Bright blue eyes narrowed, shifty and suspicious. "Why're you so sure?"

"You don't hide anything," said Lio. He moved on, refusing to cede space to an interruption. "Do this daily till the sleeve comes off. When it's off, continue daily for a year."

"A year?!"

"A few times daily."

Galo's mouth gaped, his brows pinched. Lips moved, soundless at first. "A few times a day," he managed. "For a year. You... you'd do that?"

Vision shook, fuzzed and doubled, then sharpened like a scope. How was it possible? "You mean, remind you?" Feeling like this without the presence of fire.

"No, I mean, you'd actually do it?"

No compromise. No mercy. "Do what? I don't remember agreeing to anything."

Suddenly sage: "I see, I see." Galo wrenched his arm away—so he could turn and face Lio. He shifted to fold his legs beneath him on the bed, sitting seiza. He grasped his own knees, grip firm—a man braced for an important task. "Lio Fotia!"

Lio flinched from the force of the shockwave disguised as Galo's voice. It boomed on: "I, Galo Thymos, entrust my arm to you. Please take care of it!"

Flatly, "That wasn't asking."

They stared at each other.

At some length: "Hey, this is sudden, but...can you move down a little bit?"

"Huh?" Lio tilted a look over his shoulder. Sufficient space. He scooted down a few centimetres and then returned a glance to Galo, seeking affirmation. "Here?"

Galo hummed, one eye shut in contemplation. "No, no good! A little more."

A little more. "Like this?"

"Yeah, perfect! Now..."

Galo's palms found the bed, his index fingers and thumbs shaping into a triangle while he lowered his head and body, folding over himself; chest pressed to his knees.

Lio blinked. Twice. Thrice. More. Sight became strobe light for all the blinking he did. By the time he had it under control, Galo had come out of his bow, sitting upright, palms back on his knees. His brows pinched, mouth squirming with discomfort. "I'm asking," he said. Once the words were out, pink flushed his cheeks again.

"Idiot," said Lio, who was sure his face echoed the same colour. "Who'd refuse when you ask like that?" 

Galo watched him, gaze fixed. "You don't have to do it."

Hot.

Too hot.

Not hot enough.

Something changed. Just now. They were on a level field, equals. But the terrain had shifted. Vanished from beneath them, bottomed out. Freefalling toward some hot-not-hot-enough magma core. 

Lio didn't know what to do with the feeling. He said, "No, I will."

The FDPP was a public building. It was late, but there were people here—everyone was working or on-call. Someone would always be awake. Some might even be in the sleeping quarters, in their own dorms.

Oh.

He _did_ know.

Lio shifted, abandoning the bed. Galo blinked, turning his head to follow him. "Over already?"

"It was over a while ago," said Lio, because he wasn't interested in lying regardless of what it said about him. "It doesn't take that long." He moved to slip back into his boots—and felt the warm shackle of Galo's palm closing around his wrist.

Lio's breath hitched. 

Shake him.

It's hot.

Shake him.  


Can't think like this.

Shake him.

_There are people here_.

Shake h-

"Lio," said Galo, solemn, but most important: soft. Gentle, this bulldozer of a man. He could break bricks with his face, yet still spoke like that. "Don't run away again."

Molten. Flight instinct evaporated, replaced by one yet unnamed. Didn't know it could still feel like this—hot, unrelenting. The punishing heat of raw feeling—but not amplified by an unknown source. It was him. His energy.

But there were people here.

He didn't shake Galo off. He looked at him and saw it. Understood in consummate clarity: they were in this spot together. Neither quite knowing what to do with what they had. Knowing this wasn't the place to do whatever it was that needed to be done to put the unknown to rest. Make it known.

Needed a distraction. "Weren't you sleeping?"

Galo took the bait. "Hah? It's not even that late!"

Lio glanced at the door. An escape route—secure, reliable. Gingerly, he removed his wrist from Galo's fingers. ...and climbed back into his bed.

He seized Galo's hand—the one that had leashed him. No scars to roll or stretch, but no matter. He pressed his thumbs into the centre of Galo's palm as if it was a great paw from which he could extract claws. A strong hand; large enough to crush both his wrists.

Heat licked his nerves. Made him feel twitchy. Scattered. Disorganised. "You don't usually lie around," he said. It was all he could think to say.

"Yeah," Galo agreed. "I was just...thinking."

Then, ice.

Feverishness consumed him before—back when the brunt of his rage was directed toward Kray Foresight. This feeling was different—colder, harder. Anger was still present, but like lava, began to freeze. Take a different form. Cooled his head.

Galo was thinking of what would come next. What would happen to Kray Foresight?

No one knew.

Lio said nothing. His eyes remained on Galo's palm as if this required thought, rather than existing only as an excuse—something to occupy him. Keep his hands moving. Create space to think.

Kray Foresight was a hypocrite who'd wanted nothing but to try his hand at God. Would have torched earth and Galo with it—and Galo still loved him. Impossible to comprehend.

But he understood one thing: Galo Thymos was a better person than Lio Fotia.

Awkward, kneaded silence.

"Lio?"

"Mm."

"You ever think about what you're gonna do?"

For now, the crazy-making heat had passed. Lio released Galo's hand. "No, your invitation—what you said afterwards... I don't know what I'd be doing if not for that."

A generous characterisation. Galo's words had been more a directive, but it had been fine. Listening to someone else's idea for once.

Galo took advantage of his freedom, flopping into his mattress with the grace of falling rocks. He rolled to his side, propped his cheek up with his hand, and watched Lio. "That's normal, isn't it? You lived on the run."

"I wonder." Lio wiggled on the mattress, locating the optimal place to sit to stretch a leg and thunk one black-socked foot in the centre of Galo's chest. _Push._ "I didn't think this was possible."

Galo weathered the treatment like an amiable dog assaulted by a runt kitten. He let Lio wobble him. "But you had plans, right?"

"Of course," Lio said. "But not even my best-case scenario was close to this." Push.

Galo bobbled. "Best-case scenario?"

"I thought I could—if _we_ could save them, we could find someplace where we couldn't be chased. We'd figure out how to sustain ourselves; burn places an average citizen would never find. We wouldn't give them any reason to fear us anymore."

Difficult walking along this ledge, looking to what lay below. To all those hopes, desires, wishes, and dreams. The ones alive shared their space with those that died. Sometimes hard to tell them apart in the wreckage of life lived without stability. Could be crushed under the weight of what he felt if he wasn't careful. 

He continued: "The most I imagined was a place where they had roofs over their heads. Homes with windows, so they could watch their children play and not worry about whether they'd ever come back inside."

"A place where they wouldn't have to run anymore," said Galo, attentive in a quiet way. Unfamiliar, but welcome.

"Yeah." He saw it—escalating dissolution. "If we hadn't been found—I knew they wouldn't understand." Beam by beam. "Normal people. They wouldn't. Not right away. I understood—" Brick by brick. "I didn't blame them for their fear. They didn't—they couldn't know. But if I..." Onward, the unsteady march of words: " _We_ worked hard enough to build that foundation for them, we might leave something for them. Something better than a legacy of ashes."

Silence.

Lio's foot stilled. He stared at the toe of his sock, avoiding Galo's expression. Didn't want to see. Confirm the unknown and make it known. More comfortable that way—thinking he could take that foot and the other like it, use them to run. A security blanket for fractured thoughts, trying to net them back together. "I never would have—I didn't think I'd live like this again."

Defences collapsed. "It wasn't an option," said Lio, his voice rising like sickness. "It's hard to remember now." Crackling higher. "How it was." Fractured. "Before the fire."

Galo came loose beneath his heel. He took Lio's ankle and set the foot aside, pushing himself up.

Didn't want to see his face. That compassion. Lio dipped his head forward, forced his hair to veil his eyes in shadow. Precautionary.

"Lio," said Galo, tender like bruises.

Lio raised one hand. The universal gesture: _stop._

_Clack_ , the sound of teeth. Galo clamped his mouth shut.

Good.

An inhale. Another. 

Now, who was this? This person who battered his own heart, skewered it and held it to the fire, cooking it for someone else to eat? 

Steady. Focus.

"It's fine," he said, once his voice was level. He lifted his chin, apprehension transformed to tempered determination. "I don't regret anything. No one will die like that again."

Steadier: Galo's attention. It never held for short speeches, let alone crumbling diatribes. Hard to have that consideration on him. Harder to meet Galo's eyes, which was why he met them and didn't look away.

"Lio," he said again, his voice still an ache. "If you forget how to live this terrestrial life, just find me, and I'll take care of it. I'll show you!" His idiot's face filled with undeniable conviction. He lifted his right hand and struck himself in the chest, fist closed over his heart. "If you forget again, that's okay. Come back, and I'll do it again. If you forget after that, I'll do it then, too! Whenever you need, as many times as you need, so don't worry about it."

Lio's fingers twitched, curling into the blanket as if he wasn't sitting on a mattress, but on a raft at sea, about to be thrown off. Teemed with nervous energy. Gunpowder. A trigger about to pull. Felt the active, aggressive erosion of more boundaries. Any further and he'd say something stupid.

"I'd like that," he said, saying something stupid.

It won Galo's grin—unlike average sunlight, but quite like the sun. It touched everything and was everywhere. Couldn't escape. The hot-bright attention always shifted, seeking new angles and places into which it could spill. Galo said, "Then, I should say..."

Lio's eyes popped wide.

Arms: more tangible than light. Solid, like mass and earth. They crushed his body against Galo's chest, snaring him in a fierce hug. "Welcome home, Lio!"

Unbearably warm. Lio pressed his palms against Galo's shoulders, pushing; testing him for give and finding none. " _Kch_."

Resistance was short-lived. His tension liquefied under the force of Galo's kindness; hesitation sluiced from him like the thawing of an ice sheet. He yielded to the embrace, allowed himself to lean in; to snake his arms beneath Galo's to clutch at the backs of his bare shoulders; to press his forehead against the junction of shoulder and neck.

Could feel the pulse there—steady, quick. Lio tried to match his breath to Galo's—which seemed to accomplish nothing but making Galo's come faster.

Wanted to look at him again. Lio tilted his chin up, lips pursed around an instinct—a thought that hadn't quite materialised. Skin tingled. Lightning before the strike.

They might have met in the middle had Lio not surged like a wave, forcing a collision before some natural magnetism drew them together. The blunt, artless meeting of mouths—Galo's surprised sound _hmf!_ The dumbstruck pause. His large, open eyes.

Lio pulled back—to find he couldn't. Galo's breath shook when he exhaled, unwrapping one arm from Lio's back to touch his fingertips against his cheek. Delicate. Like skin was something he could break.

Heavy, the way Galo looked at him. Couldn't think. Felt good. Weighed Lio's lashes down like the lowering of curtains, shutting out the light. Touch set fire to his skin when fingers traced his jaw, lifting it. Felt the force of him before second impact—the clumsy, firm nudges between lips. Nipping. Callow, but hungry for experience. Desire to learn how the other half worked.

Soft: the sound of parting.

Lio didn't open his eyes. He pressed his face into Galo's neck, cheek brushing against his skin in a shy nuzzle. Breath felt hot. Words wispy, like thin coils of smoke, Lio murmured, "You're warm."

Galo shivered against him. That also felt good, along with the electric stand of the fine hairs on Galo's skin, raising prickles of gooseflesh.

There were people here. The FDPP was a public building.

His right hand didn't get the memo. It trailed to Galo's chest, settling on his left pec. He dug his fingertips in as he squeezed, flexing his fingers in the muscle.

Galo gasped, leaning back. "W—wait! We—we just—you—"

Disoriented, as if waking from a dream, Lio said, "Wait?"

"Yeah! You just honked it, but..."

"Honk...?"

"...I haven't even taken you out yet!"

Lio blinked at him.

Galo glared. Helpfully, he added, "On a date."

What? Lio's brows knit a sharp angle. That didn't make sense. "Today's a date," he said. "I saw it. It had a pink cloud on it."

"Not a calendar date!"

"There's nowhere to go now."

"So let me take you tomorrow!"

Lio stared at him.

Ridiculous. Completely, irrefutably stupid. Life wasn't that idyllic. No one needed to go on a date to—except Galo's bottom lip was out, swollen from recent attention. All the better with which to pout.

He pulled his wayward hand back; touched the tip of his middle and ring fingers to his own lips, thoughtful. Softly, he said, "All right." His cheeks flooded with heat.

"Okay, good. It's better this way," said Galo, pacified and authoritative. "My grandfather said-"

Lio stopped listening. He closed his eyes again, felt warmth in the shape of Galo's arms enfold him, hold him like something precious. Like one of those photos on the wall.

Swallowed that thought when he felt the heat of Galo's breath against his hair.

It was fine like this for now.


End file.
